Eyes are Windows, Auras are Doorways
by avidreader96
Summary: When Loki meets Aurora at an art gala, she seems to be immune to his magic. She also seems to see right through him - despite her blindness. Little does he know, she could be his salvation, when he does't even realize he's in need of saving. They're just enjoying each other's company when the Avengers complicate things, but it leads to answers no one even knew were questions.
1. Chapter 1

I had heard the art exhibit is gorgeous. Despite being present, I was simply taking those around me at their word, though the aural feel backed their claims. In defense of the hard-working people who undoubtedly put much work into it, the area smelled wonderful, and the music created a wonderful ambience – it wasn't too loud or too soft, but perfect, and it kept the conversations inside at a respectable level. The musicians clearly know their instruments well.

I swayed in place, eyes closed, listening to the classical music, trying to determine how they also managed to make it sound so ancient and modern at the same time. They truly were skilled, as it matched the exhibit perfectly. The old artifacts surrounding the viewers, dressed in striking gowns and spiffy tuxedos, talking quietly about how wonderful the art is, exuded an ancient aura, while the people's modern auras mixed with it. And surprisingly, the mixture wasn't abhorrent as it could sometimes be.

I mused to myself how wonderful art can be. Art is one of the few the non-living things I've found to have an aura of its own – likely because the people who make it infuse so much of their own, and the art nearly comes alive, gathering auras around it for the rest of its existence.

So many times in my life I've tried to explain why I insist on loving art and going to galleries, but no one believes my aura story, though they do sometimes humor me.

I maneuver myself over to another piece, a vase-like artifact, which has an aura that calls to me. I keep to the edge of the crowd, listening to the music, catching bits of conversation, and feeling my long black gown flow around my ankles.

Once I reach the vase, I'm interrupted by a waiter with a tray of champagne.

"Care for a drink, madame?"

"I would love one," I respond smiling, and hold out my hand. It takes him a moment to register that I'm not looking directly at him, and another couple of seconds to deduce why, but eventually he places the stem of the glass against my fingers with a clearing of his throat, and I take my drink.

"Thank you," I say, and listen while he walks away, hesitates, then continues on quietly chiding himself for being so thick. He probably nodded his head in reply to my thanks. His aura has become tinged with a matte yellow, telling me he's embarrassed. I just chuckle quietly to myself and sip my drink.

The vase is more alive than the other pieces, and I can't figure out why. Its aura is brighter and almost pulsing, something usually reserved for art that is exceptionally famous and garners many visitors per day – such as _Starry Night_ which I saw at the Museum of Modern Art in New York not long ago; its aura was exceptional and it remains one of my favorite pieces.

Yet that does not explain this piece, only recently found, along with the rest of exhibit, and experiencing the prestigious opening night of its first presentation.

I take another sip as I ponder, and then purse my lips.

"Is the champagne not to your liking, my dear?" says a man walking up to my right, interrupting my thoughts.

But I know him, recognize his voice and the humor in it, his walk, and most importantly to me, his aura.

"The champagne is lovely," I respond as we exchange cheek kisses before turning back to the interesting vase, "how have you been, Chester?"

"Ah, the usual stressed when my space is being used for an event," he says jovially, not truly minding – he loves people and events mean people.

"Thank you for getting me an invite, the art is wonderful." I say, meaning every word.

"You're most welcome, my dear, though it's not as if you would not have received an invitation anyway. The daughter of an international multi-millionaire who nearly owns the computer tech industry ranks high on any guest list."

I hum quietly, reluctantly agreeing, and sip my drink again, feeling the expensive diamond bracelet slide down my arm, given to me by my father for my 24th birthday the previous month, and probably picked out by his secretary.

"May I ask a question, my dear?" I hear him ask after a moment of quiet contemplation.

"I don't ever recall a time when I was able to stop you," I say jokingly.

"I am very forward, aren't I?" he muses to himself before continuing, "You've told me many times why you insist on attending these events, but I must ask why this piece has seized your interest so? There are many more enchanting artworks present tonight."

"You mean there are more expensive artworks here tonight, and it's likely you aren't only speaking of the inanimate objects." I remind him ruefully, trying to suppress my smile.

Chester laughs loudly, drawing I'm sure, some glaring looks for disrupting the ambience so carefully crafted. But from the soft sighs I hear immediately following, I guess there are some young women here tonight who no longer care that the handsome young man disrupted anything.

From what I've been told, the twenty seven year old who has been my friend since I was three, is quite gifted in the looks department.

"Despite the abundance of money in this room, from the value of the art to the value of the people, this piece exudes a life of its own that I can't explain. It's intriguing." I finally explain.

Chester has long since gotten used to my cryptic answers, and while I can tell he doesn't believe in auras, he supports me in my supposed delusion.

"Well, I suppose whatever floats your boat. Speaking of boats, have you decided whether or not you'll be joining my family and me this weekend? You know Olivia loves you, and she enjoys the yacht more when you tag along."

"I've been meaning to get back to you on that. I would love to join you. Thank you so much for the invitation." Chester makes a noise in the back of his throat that I know is his verbal equivalent of a shrug.

"No need for thanks, you're part of the family, you know that."

I have spent a significant amount of my life with the Kinley family. After my mother passed when I was twelve, my father pulled away and dove into his work. The Kinleys, already family friends, pretty much took me in. Chester's father, Marcus, is my father's business partner, and his mother, Cynthia, is the owner of a successful law firm in New York. My father became very invested in public image, and the Kinleys were the only people it was acceptable for me to be seen socializing with, in his opinion.

"Oh!" Chester says suddenly, snapping his fingers and startling me, "I almost forgot, my parents sent me with their belated birthday gift."

I listen to what sounds like him pulling something from inside his jacket pocket.

"Turn around," he says, and I can hear him undo a small clasp, so I turn and lift my hair from my neck.

Chester secures the heavy and cool necklace around my neck and after he clasps it, I turn back and feel the necklace.

It's a simple chain, with a weighty tear-drop pendant that lands just between my breasts, falling perfectly between the deep-v dress cut of the dress. I can feel a large and smooth stone set into the pendant with smaller stones patterned around the edge; the overall effect exudes an exquisite aura. Art and precious stones or gems are a couple of my favorite things, not for their worth, but for their spirit. It's something I expressed to Marcus and Cynthia when I was thirteen, and they've never forgotten, always getting me one of the two as gifts from then on.

"It's a silver chain and pendant setting. The large stone is green opal, and the smaller ones are alternating moldavite and alexandrite," he explains, "what's its aura?" he asks. Like I said, he humors me, and so does his family, always asking the same thing when I'm given a new piece of art or jewelry.

"It's green, very green, very natural. It feels like earth, the metals and smell of fresh soil, but like in a meadow. The opal has green, and blues, and a little brown, it makes it so complex." I say, smiling widely, thoroughly in love with this new necklace.

"Thank you so much!" I exclaim, hugging Chester excitedly, and nearly dropping my champagne in the process.

"Woah there, let's watch that, shall we?" he says good-naturedly, taking the nearly empty glass from me. I can hear the small noise as he deposits it on the passing tray of a waiter. I don't mind not finishing it, I'm too entranced by the necklace.

"Anyway, mother and father picked it out, and I think Olivia helped as well, you can thank them this weekend." What I don't tell him, what I have never told any of them, is that I can always tell exactly who chose it. Precious stones and gems are funny things – they seem to understand intent, and take an imprint of the aura of those with good ones. When the Kinleys search for things for me, the things recognize caring and good intentions, and the imprint magnifies as they handle it before gifting it to me. My response to it sort of completes the imprint, ensuring the gem will always hold a piece of them, so when I wear the gift, it's like having them nearby.

It's for this reason that I'm nearly always wearing my mother's favorite ring, aside from her engagement and wedding rings – those I keep on a chain and wear daily, just not to galas. No, the small lapis lazuli ring set in a twisted silver band was my mother's favorite, and is a family heirloom on her mother's side, always passed down to daughters. She gifted it to me in her will, and I've almost never taken it off since receiving it.

Chester is still talking, "Olivia went on a whole rant about why they picked it, and I'm sure you'll get the same one this weekend, but it boils down to: it matches your eyes, and they know it's some of your favorite colors." I smile and laugh, he's right, on both counts; I'll probably get the same explanation, and it is my favorite colors.

Suddenly Chester covers my left hand with his, stopping the fiddling I'd been doing absentmindedly with the lapis ring on my right. It's a giveaway that I'm thinking of my mother, and he never fails to comfort me.

"I'm okay," I assure him, patting his hand with my right.

"I know you are, I'm just reminding you that you're not alone." He says. I can feel his attention being drawn away for a moment, and I can feel the aura of someone not far away – a woman, and her whole being is focused on Chester, though she's being coy.

"Well, my dear, I'm afraid I have some business to attend to, enjoy your auras and I'll find you later tonight," he says.

"'Business' he says," I say to him, "does this business have anything to do with the woman roughly ten feet behind me giving you doe eyes?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"How do you do that?" he asks incredulously, still not used to me knowing these things, despite how often I attempt to explain.

"I may be blind, Chester, but I'm not _blind_." I say, knowing he hears the difference.

He chuckles, presumably shakes his head, and kisses my cheek again in affection before going off on his own.

I sigh and turn back to the vase, fingering the large opal stone for a moment. Then the vases' pulsing aura stutters for a moment before regaining its previous rhythm, snatching my attention once more.

_That's odd_, I think. I've never seen art or gems do that before, and I haven't the foggiest idea what it means.

When I can discern no reason for the stutter, I decide to take a break from figuring out this particular aura, and tune into those of the people around me. That's when I notice the odd behavior of some as a man begins walking through the throng of people.

Typically, auras sort of stretch to touch those around them; I've always considered it either a by-product of, or the reason for, the human need for social interaction and contact.

However, in the case of this man, the auras around him don't react to his presence, and as I pay more attention, neither do the people. This strikes me as odd, since his aura is commanding, reflecting a commanding personality, as well as confident.

Recognizing the confidence makes it even stranger that the auras don't reach out. We truly are a mix of the people we spend the most time with, and our auras drive us near those with strong or desirable traits. Charismatic leaders I've met have had the same feel to their aura as this man crossing the floor of the gala. And yet it's like he's invisible.

I'm still facing the vase, but my whole attention is focused on the man walking through a sea of people that don't seem to even notice him. Turning wouldn't do much for me anyway; I don't see with my eyes, and I haven't since I was twelve.

His aura is intricate, and I love puzzles and mysteries. He has green in the middle, but it's clouded with murky blacks, like it's being strangled, an unusual combination if I've ever seen one. Green is goodness, good spirits, and humor. Black is never good, it shows malicious intent or even evil, but in his aura it feels foreign, like it's not his own, though I've never felt anything like it. He also has red streaks flashing outside the black, meaning passion and strong will, maybe the reason the black hasn't clouded out the green yet, if my assumption is right. He also has blues and browns, the gold color I've come to associate with confidence, and he also has some yellow invading the edges inside the gold. The gold shimmers and is bold, while the yellow is dark and flat, showing insecurity hidden behind confidence, though the confidence is very real.

There isn't much you can hide in your aura, but they are complicated, just as people are.


	2. Chapter 2

It's not until he's three quarters of the way across the gallery that I notice he's heading right toward me. Or rather, more likely toward the piece.

When he finally comes to a stop next to me, I can better feel the power in his aura, and it nearly makes me lose my breath. The man is tall, over six feet, and even in my heels I can feel that he towers over me. He also smells lovely, which is a strange thing to think maybe, but without sight, smell is an important sense to have developed. His cologne is light and smells musky, maybe it's a natural scent.

He hasn't acknowledged me even though he's standing just next to me, nearly touching my side. Almost like he doesn't expect me to know he's there. I may be blind, but I'm not oblivious.

"Very nice," he mutters to himself, while observing the vase.

"Have an appreciation for ancient pottery, sir?" I ask lightly, making him jump away a little. So he didn't expect me to notice him.

"My apologies, I didn't mean to startle you." I say, not turning from the vase. I can tell he's shifted to stand facing me now, and his aura is swirling in confusion.

"You can see me?" he asks incredulously.

"The simple answer is yes." I answer cryptically.

"The simple answer?" he asks, voice clearly confused.

"Yes." I say, smiling lightly, enjoying confusing him as much as his aura confounds me, still not turning to look at him.

Then his aura stops swirling and instead seems to form a barrier, like he's guarding himself, but from a blind woman?

"Ah, I see, you know I am here, yet I am not worthy of your gaze, you who are clearly of a high class." He sneers, and despite his harsh words, the flat yellow in his aura thickens and darkens, revealing an insecurity connected to being ignored. Who could ignore a man with such a strong pull? And why does he react so?

In answer, I finally turn to look at the man. It takes him a moment to figure out what I'm showing him, and I know he's got it when he inhales sharply and the yellow goes back to its previous state.

"My apologies again, sir, it was not my intent to seem to ignore you, but I'm afraid my gaze holds no weight." I say, chuckling to myself.

I hear him struggle as his mouth snaps open and closed, no words coming out. I can't tell if the discomfort in his aura is because he is not used to being speechless, or as a result of seeing my eyes.

I am not disfigured, by my irises are interesting. When Chester said the opal matches my eyes, he did not mean just because my eyes are green – they are many colors, a rare form of sectoral heterochromia. My eyes are base green, but have blue and brown, and surprisingly red in the very edge of my right iris. Though this in itself doesn't make people uncomfortable. No, that's due to the fact that my eyes are truly broken. My right pupil is clouded with a light purple color, and my left iris was actually split, then mended itself incorrectly and is now asymmetrical.

The iris is a muscle that controls the contracting of the pupil in response to light. When I lost my eyesight, my right clouded, and my left snapped, causing intense pain. The pupil is now a tilted oval, and the iris circle is broken, now looking more like two half circles of different sizes thrown together.

Or so I'm told. The colors I've had since birth, so I've seen that myself, but the clouded pupil means no vision, and no surgery has been able to correct it. The broken iris means the muscle is no longer functional, and the inability to regulate the light ended up irreparably harming the cones in my eye, so no vision there anymore either.

It's the asymmetry and the clear brokenness of my eyesight that makes people flinch away.

"So, have you been enjoying the artwork on display tonight?" I ask, trying to lessen the tension. I don't want him to run before I've figured him out.

"If you couldn't see me, how did you know I was here?" he asks, not taking the subject change, but he's talking again, at least.

"I am blind, not oblivious." I tell him, echoing my earlier thought.

"Of course," he say, "how rude of me. Please, accept my apology, I hadn't meant to be impolite."

"Apology accepted," I say, turning back to the vase, its pulse having sped up. I tilt my head and purse my lips, something I do when concentrating.

But my concentration is broken when I can still feel his eyes on me a few moments later, and the intrigue in his aura growing.

"May I help you, sir?"

His aura startles, though outwardly he shows no sign, like he had thought I would forget his presence.

"May I ask a personal question?" he inquires.

"Of course." I answer.

"Why stare so intently when…" his voice trails off, and I feel movement in the air like he waved his hand around when he lost his words. Then a yellow embarrassment appears when he remembers I can't see it.

I turn to him, and angle my gaze around where I think his eyes are, based on where his voice is coming from. He sucks in a breath, but this time there is no discomfort. Also odd, usually it unnerves people when I seem to see something they logically know I can't. Like it's threatening when I know more about my environment than they do.

"I like the energy art exudes." I tell him simply.

I can tell he's surprised at the answer, the pink in his aura giving him away.

Rather than turning back to the vase, I continue to face him, and though my gaze holds no weight, it feels as though his does. I can practically feel it run down my body and up again, where the interest in his aura snags on something, probably the necklace, based on the flash of green in his aura, the result of coming in contact with a similar aura coming from the necklace.

He doesn't say anything, but a hesitancy appears, like he's deciding on something or waiting for me to affirm something. Then I feel another flutter in the air around me, and I surmise he's asking permission to touch the stone, not an uncommon reaction around me when I'm wearing an aura exuding stone.

But still, I can't see, and it takes people multiple reminders until they just make it habit to verbalize around me.

So I reach up and clasp his had between both of mine, causing a brief spark of energy to zap through me, though I do my best not to show it. It surprises me more when his aura seems to react in the same way.

"I can't see gestures." I remind him.

"Of course," he says, "I am sorry." It almost sounds like he's chastising himself in the same apology to me. He tries to pull his hand away, but I hold on.

"I can't see gestures," I reiterate, "so you must vocalize requests." I continue, providing him with the opportunity to ask.

He hesitates for a second, but he is a confident man, and he finally gets the words out, "Might I touch the stone in your necklace? It is exquisite."

I smile, "It is, isn't it? A gift from family." I tell him, releasing his hand and reaching to lift the necklace from my skin.

But he returns my earlier gesture, and clasps both of my hands between his, sending another spark of energy through me. I'm too busy controlling my breathing to notice if his aura reacts again.

The breathing exercise becomes futile when he removes one hand from where they are intertwined in the air between us, and gently touches the stone, where is still rests in its setting, hanging between my breasts.

"It is made more exquisite by its wearer," he mutters so quietly I'm not sure I was meant to hear.

My swallow sounds like a canon going off to me, but he doesn't appear to notice, thankfully. The aura around the necklace seems to get brighter for a moment, reacting to being touched and absorbing his aura, reacting to me, or preening from the compliment I'm not sure. I'm not even sure if stones are capable of reacting this way, or if it was my imagination.

I can practically feel his attention shift back to my face – to my eyes – and I take the opportunity to breathe. I'm very aware that he hasn't released my hands, his one big enough to encompass both of mine.

Just then, when the feel of his gaze is getting more intense than I'm sure I can handle, the vase's aura flashes extra bright, and my attention is drawn to it. Though I can't see, my head automatically shifts toward it and my brow furrows in concentration.

His aura reacts in a surprised and inquisitive manner when I face the vase. Though it doesn't feel like he wonders why I look toward it, but rather wondering if I felt the same thing he clearly did, judging by the immediate reaction his aura had to the flash.

He releases my hands, and I feel a flash of disappointment, but it's swiftly replaced with surprise and anticipation when he immediately steps closer, into my personal space, with his hands on my hips.

I'm having quite the reaction to man I've only just met, and don't even know the name of. But my body isn't responding to commands at the moment, even if I was to try to back away. My hands, which instinctually went up to his chest when I felt him step forward, are curled up resting against the lapels of his tuxedo jacket lightly.

"You, with your exceptional eyes, may be blind, but you can _see_ more than anyone else in this room, can't you." He says quietly, and I was wrong earlier if I thought his gaze has weight then; now it's like a physical presence on my skin as he studies me.

My breathing goes a little erratic, and I attempt to calm it by responding.

"Such a strange declaration by a man whose whole being exudes strength and charisma, yet passes through a room full of people who don't even react to his presence, like they don't see him. The same man who is surprised when someone notices he is there, yet becomes angry when he feels ignored."

I can hear the smile in his voice, "Strange it may be, but nonetheless you do not deny it."

I shrug, my chest rubbing against his, he's so close, "The truth is the truth, though usually people don't believe my explanation." I say.

"You will find I am not like most people," he tells me.

I can't help the teasing smile that appears, "Does that mean this will not be our only encounter?" I ask, shifting my weight to my other foot to press more weight against him, and I'm rewarded with his small, sharp intake of breath.

I feel more than hear him chuckle, the sound deep and vibrating his whole torso.

"I would say so, though truly the decision is yours. Unfortunately, I must be going." I can see in his aura the truth of his statement; he doesn't want to leave.

"There's a crystal on a chain around my neck," he says, and at first I'm confused when he doesn't move his hands. I decide he must mean for me to take it, and when my hands uncurl to rest fully against his jacket, his hands briefly, lightly, squeeze my waist. Maybe in encouragement, maybe on impulse.

I move my hands from his tuxedo jacket to the shirt beneath, unsure when the move seems so intimate, but I tell myself he can interpret it however he wants, I can't see to just immediately reach for the chain; doing that, I'm liable to accidentally hit his face or jaw, and that would be infinitely more embarrassing.

But his aura jumps, the black around the green seeming to be drowned out by the brighter greens and reds, encouraging me. This close, I can tell the black is definitely not his.

I slide my hands higher, lightly gliding over his soft shirt, to the collars, where I can also feel a loose satin bowtie. I pause, uncertain again, when my fingertips leave the relative safety of his shirt, and instead touch the bare skin of his neck, the warmth inviting, but again intimate.

Once again I'm encouraged when he shivers as my nails run against the top of the collar, slipping under to search out a chain. Sure enough, I find one, cold to the touch despite being against his warmth, which strikes me as odd.

I gently tug at the chain, pulling it free, then work the rod-like crystal free of the collar as well, then settle is against his chest. I feel the crystal, attached to the chain through a hole drilled into it.

The whole process feels like it took hours, when really it was more likely a couple of minutes, maximum.

"What color is it?" I ask quietly.

"White, with streaks of purple and blue," he tells me.

"Purity, royalty, and humility," I mutter to myself, not really meaning for him to hear.

He chuckled anyway, "What religion is that color scale based on?" he asks.

"None." I answer, still feeling the crystal with my left hand, my right resting in his shirt again, just ever so slightly under the edge of the jacket. From what I can tell, he's well-muscled, but the majority of my attention is still on the crystal.

"Then why do you assign such attributes to these colors?" he asks.

"Personal experiences." is all I say, the crystal is odd. The colors match the very small aura pulsing around it, but it's outlined in a thick black. Could this be the source of the black in his aura?

"Take it," he says.

I arch an eyebrow at him, tilting my face up toward him. He only chuckles at my response, and this time very purposefully squeezes my waist. I take the crystal in my left hand and the chain in my right, and shift to my tip-toes while he leans his head down so I can slip it over his head. I ignore the fact that our respective shifting presses my breasts more firmly against him, and offers him quite the view.

The heat rushing to my face at the thought answers well enough why it doesn't bother me.

He removes his hands from my hips, and takes the chain from me, slipping it over my head, then pulling my hair out from under the chain. I can't tell if the chills are from feeling the warmth from his hands, or the chill of the necklace.

Once he's settled it to his satisfaction, he gently moves a stray hair from my face, behind my ear. Then he surprises me by cupping my face in both his hands, and tilting my head up, so I face him more fully or so he can see me, I'm not sure.

"When you make your decision of whether to _encounter_ me again," he begins, echoing my words back to me, "simply hold the crystal and think of me."

I'm about to ask how that will work, when I notice the crystal take on a distinct green – the exact shade of his aura's green.

Perhaps this man knows something more about auras. I wonder if he knows about the blackness in his own.

"May I know your name?" he asks, still holding me close, jarring me from my thoughts.

I take a deep breath to steady myself. My reaction to him is stronger than anything I've felt before.

"Aurora. Aurora Wardell." I say.

"Aurora." he says quietly, and I won't deny I enjoy how my name sounds in his voice.

He steps back suddenly, only a little, but enough to disappoint me again.

But again disappointment is short lived. He takes my right hand and raises it to his lips.

When he speaks, his breath floats over my knuckles, "It has been a pleasure meeting you Aurora. I hope to have the honor again soon." He presses another kiss to my knuckles before releasing my hand.

"Just hold the crystal and think the name Loki." He says before I hear him stride away, and I can see his aura shining from across the room until he exits the gala, leaving me grinning to myself over a mysterious stranger.

I already know my decision.

[]

A/N: Please excuse the extensive description of her eyes, it's important later, I promise.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: There were a couple of questions asked in the comments (and thank you so much for leaving them! You're all so sweet and I'm glad you're excited for the story) and I just wanted to address them here. Theatre: I'm placing this sometime after Thor 2, and the Avengers somehow know Loki is back on earth working on a new plan – which is connected to the unusual vase! My intention really isn't to follow any comic plotline either.

[]

The next morning when my alarm goes off at 11am, I have to untangle myself from under my many blankets to hit snooze.

I fall back asleep.

Then the alarm starts back up, and I groan as I finally pull myself up to sit on the edge of my bed, before flopping back again. I am not a morning person.

Eventually I remember I'm meeting my father for a late lunch, and I stand up. My bathroom is attached to my bedroom in my sizeable apartment – my father wouldn't hear of anything less – but about five feet from the doorway, my feet hit something silky.

I lean down to pick it up, and find myself holding my dress from the night before. Then I finally remember that I simply tossed it away to the floor before throwing on a t-shirt to sleep in. I did carefully remove my jewelry, except the crystal, that I left on though I usually don't sleep with necklaces on. Perhaps I was just tired.

At the memory of the crystal, I raise my hand until my fingers brush against it – through my t-shirt. When I pull it out from under the fabric, the white, purple, and blue colors seem to be brighter, while the black is different – almost lessened. Weird. In my experience, non-human auras don't change this quickly, if at all.

I decide to leave it on while I shower, though more out of a muffled instinct than a real reason.

In the shower, I reflect on the previous night, feeling the silly smile on my face again. _Loki_. It's an unusual name, and I do pay attention to the news. I know there was a Loki involved with the attack on New York. The problem, is that the man I met had an aura that couldn't be responsible for something like that – unless the blackness is stronger than I thought.

But the man is still an enigma. I don't know enough about him. And now that I think about it, he wasn't at the gallery for long last night. I noticed his aura shortly after he entered the room, and then he left not long after. I didn't think much of it last night though.

In fact, I had a splendid night. After Loki left, I was in a very good mood. I wandered around the gallery more, though I continued to pay attention to the vase. Its aura calmed down not long after I wandered away, and though I returned a couple of times during the night, it didn't waver.

_Chester found me after his potential date left with her date, and he decided to wander with me, asking about the auras of the different pieces. It wasn't until an hour later that he suddenly asked where I had gotten the crystal necklace from._

"_A man gave it to me, about an hour ago." I told him._

"_A man? And you didn't think it was weird? Did you arrange to meet him here? Are you seeing someone? Why haven't I met him? Why haven't you mentioned him?" He fires off rapidly._

_I just laugh._

"_Calm down, Chester, you'll hurt yourself thinking so hard." I joke, getting a light poke in the side in retaliation._

"_Really, everything is fine. I'm not seeing someone, you know I would tell you. I didn't arrange to meet him, it just kind of happened. There was, I don't know, a connection of some sort."_

"_Well, Rory, you've got a goofy smile on your face. I hope you have a way to contact him again. Unless, is he still here?" he asks, and I can hear his shoes squeak as he quickly spins around, though he wouldn't know what Loki looks like._

"_No, he had to leave, and yes, I do have a way to contact him." I say, not elaborating. Chester humors my aura-seeing, no way will he believe I could contact someone through it. I'm not even sure how it will work._

"_Well, it's quite the necklace, I wonder how I didn't notice it until just now?" his voice is questioning, but I just shrug my shoulders, not knowing an answer._

Now, with time to reflect on it, I wonder how such a necklace could go unnoticed, much like I wondered how such a man could walk through a room full of people and not be noticed by a single one of them.

I start to wonder how long is an appropriate amount of time to wait before attempting to contact someone via crystal. _Is there even a rule for such a thing?_ I ask myself with a small smile.

My thoughts wander from when I will have some time free, to lunch with my father. My mood drops quickly, and I finish my shower.

[]

I was supposed to meet my father at one, but I'm running late, and I'll likely reach the restaurant at closer to one-fifteen. I can't help the traffic in the city, and my driver has done his best to keep us on time, because he knows my father nearly as well as I do.

My father hates tardiness.

Finally I reach the lavish building, and make my way via elevator to the top floor where the restaurant is located. Upon reaching my destination, I step out of the elevator, using my cane since I've never been here before and don't know the layout.

I find the direction to the hostess podium easily, the auras of the people standing around are curious when they see my cane and register my sunglasses indoors; the young woman who works here and will be responsible for taking me to my seat instead becomes nervous. It's likely many of the customers here are wealthy and only require flattery rather than real help.

"Good afternoon, how may I help you?" she asks, only a little nervously, once I reach the podium.

"Hello," I start with a smile, "my party is likely already here. Wardell?" I tell her.

She relaxes, "Yes, of course," she says, "please follow me."

She starts walking, but quickly stops and turns to me.

"Oh, um, do you need - ?" but she trails off, unsure of how to ask if I need assistance to follow her.

It's not an unusual reaction, but I'm in a marginally foul mood because meals with my father aren't always pleasant, so I don't help her.

Maybe I'm being vindictive. I feel I am allowed the occasional opportunity to make people uncomfortable. They take so many things for granted that I can no longer do. Like see the sky, for instance. And yet, I know from experience, that half the people here, with a fantastic view of the sky and the city below, will be too preoccupied with newspapers, or devices, or legal paper, or who knows what else to even spare a glance out the windows.

"Ah, Miss Wardell, what a pleasure to see you again." Says a male voice, and I recognize it as the manager. And this I know, because I've met this man many times before.

"Mr. Anderson," I exclaim delightedly, "I wasn't aware you had been asked to get this establishment running smoothly as well?"

Mr. Miles Anderson is a restaurant guru, as long as the restaurant caters to the wealthy. He is well-known in the elite circles, and attends many events. He has always been very kind to me, and I consider him a friend. Suddenly, I'm left wondering if he is why my father picked this place. I haven't seen him for some time – he's been working overseas in Europe for nearly six months.

"Yes, it seems the previous manager was a newbie." He tells me with mock disgust, taking my hand and placing it on his arm and patting my hand comfortably.

I chuckle as he directs the hostess to stay, and he doesn't take the offered menu – not that I could read it anyway.

"Sylvia, we have menus for these instances, go fetch one of those." He says sternly, then begins leading me to my father.

We talk amicably on the walk, and he tells me the view from my table is gorgeous. But of course it is, nothing but the best for my father.

"Mr. Wardell, how are you doing this fine day?" Mr. Anderson asks, letting me know we've reached our destination.

I hear the chair move as my father stands, and his aura, a dim collection of colors, as it has been since my mother died, gets taller, moving with him.

"Mr. Anderson, busy as always. How was Europe?"

Before answering, Mr. Anderson pulls out my chair, and after I've been seated, my father resumes his own.

"Always a pleasure to visit, sir. Please do enjoy your meal. I'm afraid I have business to attend to."

He walks away, and I fold my cane so it fits in the inside pocket of my brown leather jacket.

"Good afternoon, father." I say, amicably enough.

"You're late, Aurora."

"My apologies, traffic was worse than I had anticipated."

"Mr. Smith," my driver, "should have insisted you leave earlier then."

"I don't need a babysitter." I snap, and I immediately know it was the wrong choice.

"If you insist on being late like a child, perhaps you do."

I grind my teeth instead of respond. I hear him take a breath, but he's interrupted by Sylvia arriving with a think menu.

She offers it to me silently, like she's already forgotten why I require it, but I take it anyway with simply a nod in thanks.

I can't put my finger on why I'm in such a bad mood. It's disproportionate, even for lunch with my father.

Before I can open my menu, I guess my father has looked at me for the first time since I sat down, because he asks about the necklace.

"Where did you get that necklace?" He says, evidently referring to the crystal, since it's the only necklace I have on.

"It was a gift from a friend." I answer, with no other explanation.

"What friend? Chester?"

"No, father, just a friend. It's nothing really." But I take a moment to focus on the crystal's aura – it's different again. The black seems to have grown in strength again, though I don't understand why or how. Could this be the cause of my mood?

Suddenly, I get the answer to my unspoken question. I actually feel my mood change, and I feel lighter. The transformation in my mood happens simultaneously with the transformation of the aura: the blackness dissipates completely.

All I did was focus on it, and I noticed the blackness was foreign to the aura – like the added green from Loki's aura that he somehow did last night. I held the crystal in my right fist and concentrating on figuring out why the green and black, though both clearly foreign, had different _feelings_ connected with them. Like the black was a bad foreign, and as I focused on it, it disappeared, taking my bad mood with it.

Am I responsible for that?

"Aurora? Are you listening?" My father suddenly inquires, pulling me from my thoughts.

"Sorry, what?"

He sighs like I've grievously wounded him.

"I asked if you were at the gallery opening last night."

"Oh, yes, it was quite brilliant."

"The paper seems to think you were the brilliant one." He says, with no context.

I pause in my skimming of the menu. "Pardon?"

"There's a photo of you in the society pages of today's paper. It seems your dress was its own piece of art to the fashion world."

I think back to the dress I found in a heap on my floor this morning.

"Yes, well, I was assured it was stunning." I say, reading the menu once again.

"Do you know what you're getting yet?"

"I was thinking a salad to start, I'm not sure what else to get."

"Have you eaten yet today?" He asks, and there's some concern in his voice.

"I had some toast and orange juice when I got up." I tell him.

There's a flicker of concern in his aura – the kind he used to get when I was younger and before my mother died.

"You should get something hearty. Maybe a filet mignon?"

"For lunch?" I question.

"Why not? Eat what you like." He says lightly, and it's almost like my father is coming alive again after all these years.

"Perhaps I will," I say, pondering this particular change.

[]

Conversation with my father flows easily after that, for maybe the first time in years. I ask him about the tech industry, and he seems genuinely interested in my restaurant chain.

I own multiple successful restaurants across the country, though the company really started out as helping people out. I was at a coffee shop and overheard a small group discussing plans for a quality restaurant. They had everything planned, but they couldn't get the money. I had been given a large number of shares in my father's companies as well – making me a large owner along with him – so I introduced myself, and long story short, I have two incomes yet I have to do no work.

I do my best to advocate for charities, and donate often, while also working with companies to make better equipment for the blind. Really anything to make my days less boring.

But my father, William Wardell, CFO of Wardell Tech, has never expressed interest in my life before.

It's a nice feeling.

The meal was delicious, and it was actually an enjoyable experience.

When he had to leave, for some meeting or other, I found it was already four o'clock, and I also realized it has been a very long time since we spent so much time together for so long. My father stood, and before I could get my cane out, he had pulled my chair out so I could stand, and held his arm out.

One thing about my father is that he has never questioned how I seemed to see things I shouldn't be able to. He was very protective while I was recovering in the hospital, even as he began his permanent grieving of my mother.

We continue to talk, and even joke around, as we make our way through the fancy restaurant.

Once we reach the ground floor again, he walks me to where my car is waiting.

"Next time, Aurora, perhaps think of the location when you choose your outfit, hm?" he says, but his aura tells me he is teasing, so I laugh, and it feels so good to be able to joke with my father again. I had intentionally worn jeans, though with a nice shirt, boots, and jacket, to the restaurant, knowing that it usually irritated him.

"Maybe I will, but no promises," I answer cheekily, causing him to laugh.

The surprise that appears in Mr. Smith's aura at my father's laughter makes me laugh with him again.

"Take care of yourself, Rory," uncharacteristically using my nickname, as he kisses my cheek and helps me into the car. He tries to say it casually, but his aura shows me he feels vulnerable. He feels like he's opened himself up to my rejection. But that's the last thing I want to do.

"You, too, Daddy," and I almost tear up when his aura shows surprise. But I suppose it's not unexpected that he would be unsure if I would reject him or not. I can give as good as I get when it comes to apparent indifference.

He closes the door without another word, but his aura is brighter than it has been for a long time.

Maybe my father is coming back after all.

[]

Mr. Smith drops me off outside my apartment building, and I go back up, readying myself for a quiet night in.

When I reach my apartment, I get a glass of water from the kitchen before heading to my room to change into a loose sweater-shirt. My jeans are actually comfy so I leave those on, but I remove my boots and socks, enjoying the feel of the cool hardwood floor.

When I turn the corner out of the hallway and into the kitchen, still carrying the water, with the intent of turning the TV on, I'm startled by the presence of an aura in my living room – and promptly drop my glass, before hearing it shatter on the floor around me. I can feel a couple pieces of glass lodge in my bare feet, and I smell blood.

"_Shit"_ I exclaim, forgetting the uninvited person in my apartment for a moment.

"Are you alright?" asks a voice I couldn't forget if I wanted to.

"Loki?" I question, "What are you doing here?"

"You called for me. Are you okay?"

I try to think back to when I "called for" him. Maybe when I was comparing the vestiges of his aura to the blackness? Does that count?

Evidently it does, because he's walking towards my kitchen.

"Wait!" and he stops for second before continuing, "there's glass on the floor, and I don't know where. I'm fine, I just hate breaking stuff, cleaning it up is so tedious." I complain.

He gets close enough to see the blood probably starting to appear around my feet.

"You're not fine, you're bleeding. How can I help?"

"Well, I can't move yet without injuring myself further. Luckily I drank all the water, so I just need to sweep up the glass. There's a closet I keep the broom in just - hey, stop moving."

He starts walking toward me again, not listening to my warnings of "you'll hurt yourself," and simply telling me he'll be fine.

Suddenly, I'm lifted up, being carried bridal style out of my own kitchen, by a man I didn't even invite inside.

That was when I first realized my life was about to get a lot more interesting.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who left a review! Also, I'm ecstatic at how many people are following this story – the fact that you're even remotely interested is so astounding to me.

It's a long chapter, but I wanted to get through some important plot points. Also, it's late, and I need sleep, so please excuse any typing errors; I'm going to go back and fix them, but I really wanted to get this chapter posted. (Edit: I think I've got most of them, and man oh man, thank you for sticking with me despite some embarrassing errors!)

Enjoy! Let me know your thoughts, suggestions, questions, anything at all!

[]

[]

Loki carries me around the kitchen island, and sets me on one of the stools so I'm seated at the bar. He quickly removes the pieces of glass from my feet, and wraps a couple of paper towels loosely around them to catch any of the minor blood flow.

Then he goes to the small closet and retrieves the broom and dustpan – all without a word.

I'm too busy in my minor epiphany that admitting this man into my life will change everything about my quiet, and sometimes dark, days. Some days the memories and guilt all woven into my past are too much, and I don't leave my apartment. On those days, the only auras I may see are those of the stones and artwork. But it still makes for little to view.

I'm pulled out of my thoughts by the rhythmic sound of broom bristles against the floor. He sounds efficient, and his aura, mildly startled by the blood, is calmed by the rather mundane act of cleaning, which is interesting.

So, if I'm correct, the Norse Trickster God and god of mischief is fairly adept at cleaning. With a rueful smile on my face, it occurs to me that perhaps he has been made to clean up a mess or two that resulted from pranks or tricks.

I interrupt the comfortable silence with my thoughts.

"So I would've thought a Norse God of mischief would be more prone to breaking things than cleaning them up."

There's a pause in the sounds of sweeping as he stills. His aura spikes in anxiety, and the flat yellow insecurity flare up again. But then he continues to sweep.

He chuckles, though I can see in his aura that it's forced, "Well, if I were one, I would think a Norse God could command someone to clean it up for him."

His aura tells me he doesn't want to talk about it, and I know what that's like, so I let it go for now.

I hear the glass clink together as he sweeps it into the dustpan, then locate the trashcan under the sink.

"There, I think that's all of it." He says, with some satisfaction in his aura.

"Well, I could do a walk-through. I'll be a magnet for any left, and I might as well while I'm already bleeding." I tell him jokingly, but he doesn't seem amused that I'm injured, however slightly.

He rests the broom against the counter, and leaves the dustpan on the floor beside it. I'll probably run into them later, but for now I don't care.

"Where's your first aid kit?" he asks, already opening cabinets in my kitchen in his search.

"The cabinet by the fridge is the closest one." I say, going to rest my feet on the stool support, temporarily forgetting why he's searching for the kit. I hiss in a breath, and he steps quicker over to me.

"The closest one? How prone are you to injury?" He says with a small chuckle, but his aura shows real worry.

"Well, when I was first getting used to living on my own, I ran into things all the time. Sometimes I would drop things, like the glass, and would have to clean it up. Then I'd have to clean myself up because I didn't know the best way to go about it."

He's kneeled down beside the barstool, and is dabbing some antiseptic to the cuts.

"Most people take for granted that they can usually see where the glass is, or how far away the mess spread. When I clean something like that, I have to do a big area, mostly to increase my chances of getting it all. And then I have to use my toes to make sure I'm getting it all into the same pile. It's a process, and one I'm really quite good at now." I finish, with some pride.

It's important to me, that I'm able to live independently. It's taken me a few years to even begin to feel competent about it, but I'm nothing if not determined.

"There," he finally says, "all done." He pats my foot, then stands.

"So," I begin, "it's occurred to me, now that all the excitement is over, that I never let you in the door. You just kind of appeared in my living room."

His aura gathers a little embarrassment, like he'd hoped I would forget about that.

"Yes, well, I do apologize for that, and especially for startling you."

I wave away his apology, "Don't even worry about that. Just, next time, try knocking on the door." I stop and think for a moment. "Or, you know, let me buzz you up into the building. You've skipped multiple steps for etiquette."

His aura has lightened with glee, and there's a notable smile in his voice, "Next time, you say?"

I laugh, and poke him in the chest, "I think you've focused on the wrong part of what I said."

"Oh, on the contrary, I heard exactly what I needed to."

This time I laugh louder, "You're going to be impossible, aren't you?" I say while shoving at his shoulder playfully.

But he foils my plan by catching my hand and clasping it tightly. He bows and tells me seriously, "Milady, please forgive my breach in etiquette. The next time I come knocking, I will follow proper protocol."

"Forgiven," I chuckle, "on the condition that you help me to the couch."

I meant for him to let my use him for balance as I hobble, but he has other ideas.

"Of course," he says, as he swings me up into his arms again, and I only squeal slightly out of surprise. He only chuckles at my reaction.

His aura seems completely content, though this goes against what the world is supposed to know about Loki, the one who led the alien invasion in New York.

When we reach the couch, he sets me down, and sits next to me, though not touching. I can't tell if he's looking at me or not, but I'm focusing on his aura, trying to determine what's different about it today. Even the contentedness there is something I had noticed when we first met; it had appeared as we spoke and was slight then, but present all the same.

The blackness in his aura draws my attention; it acts strangely. I hadn't noticed before because I wasn't searching his aura as closely as I am now, but the black doesn't behave in tune with the other colors. Loki is content, so the colors swirl slowly, almost lazily, but the black doesn't. Instead it pulses, a sign the aura is agitated. I also notice that it looks different today, I'm not sure which word best describes it, but _duller_ seems to fit best.

The pulsing is agitated, but the more attention I pay to it, the more I get the sensation that I'm distinguishing a different consciousness from Loki's. I pay closer attention to the edge of the black, and abruptly I can see it in exquisite detail. I've never done that before, but more shocking to me is what I witness in this extreme clarity: Loki's aura is fighting against this foreign _thing_. It almost seems to be keeping the blackness confined and small. I've never seen anything like it in my life, though suddenly I'm left feeling like I've encountered it before – then I realize it's exactly like what I felt from the crystal.

Suddenly, I sense the alien consciousness become enraged, and the black pulses stronger than any other time before. I'm so connected to the aura, the anger reaches me, and I yelp in surprise as I physically flinch away.

"Are you okay?" Loki inquires, and though I had been studying his aura, I had nearly forgotten he was there.

"What? Oh, yes, I'm fine. My apologies, I drifted away there for a moment."

"A couple moments, actually. You were concentrating quite intensely."

"Ah, yes, I tend to do that sometimes." I say, not mentioning that usually that happens when I study auras.

"Where did you go?"

"What?"

"In your head. You seemed so far away." He tells me quietly, like he's not sure what to make of me at the moment. To be honest, I'm not sure what to make of him or his strange aura.

I laugh, "Maybe closer than you think."

His aura flashes an indigo color I've come to associate with confusion, yet he laughs at my vague answer, and the confusion is replaced with violet – preparation, usually for a challenge of some sort. Suddenly I realize I'm not the only one who's found a puzzle to work out.

"You know," I start, "I'm really at a disadvantage here."

"Oh, I really doubt that," he says, some insecurity flashing quickly. This confuses me even more. Why does he feel insecure about who he is? I file the information away for later speculation.

I laugh, "You've seen me, but I haven't seen you."

I think I hear him mutter something like _Then why do I feel you've seen more than I wanted you to_ but he hasn't mentioned any suspicion that I see auras.

"Oh? And by this you mean…?" he says out loud showing the discomfort that appears when I make indirect mention to my blindness. One thing about seeing auras that helps me in life is dealing with the sound of pity in someone's voice. I can see where the appearance of pity stems from; sometimes people don't mean to sound or come across that way.

In the case of Loki, the discomfort derives from his inability to help my blindness, since he thinks I'm complaining about it.

In answer I turn to face him more fully, and hold out my hands as I reach for his face, "Would you mind?"

I can see in his aura the moment he understands. With a low chuckle, he leans forward, and my fingertips touch his cheeks. I feel the same zap of energy I felt at the gala, and I'm pleased to see his aura have the same reaction.

I move my fingertips to his forehead, where I feel his slicked back hair.

"What color is your hair?" I ask, lightly touching it all the way down to wear it flips out at the ends just past his shoulders. He wears it long.

"Black." He answers simply.

I add it to the mental image I'm building. I move back to his forehead. I glide my hands down until I've reached his brow line. I continue learning his face, spreading my fingers out, then concentrating back around his eyes, careful not to actually touch them. His eyes are slightly set in, though not too deep.

"What color are your eyes?"

"Blue."

I continue to his high cheekbones, then down his jaw to his chin. I leave his lips for last. Typically when people allow me to do this, I do it faster, and don't touch their lips since it's little awkward and mildly invasive. But I can't stop myself this time; I want a clear mental image of this mysterious man.

I find that they are thin, but soft and warm. This I learn, despite the fact that I barely touch them, instead ghosting my fingertips over them. And it's despite this light touch that I get another jolt from the peculiar, though not unwelcome, energy. He feels it this time too, and this time reacts externally, taking a quick intake of breath, which results in his lips moving against my fingers. I quickly pull them away, and we both awkwardly clear our throats, uncertain what to say after something to strange.

I scoot just a bit further away, trying to take deep breaths to calm myself. I decide to peek into his aura again, and I notice the black has gotten duller, though from what cause I don't know.

I decide I want more water, and shift so I can get up.

"I've been a terrible host, would you like something to dr – " I start, but when I put weight on my feet, I discover I was possibly injured worse than I thought. I drop back down to the couch with a yelp of pain.

Loki reacts instantly, concern spiking. He leans over and grabs my ankles, then pulls my feet up to his lap, seeming to check the bandages he so carefully applied. As I feel the painful throbbing in my feet, I decide perhaps it was a good thing he has carried me to the couch, as I evidently would not have made it on my own.

"There's no extra blood, they're likely just tender." He tells me, still with my feet still in his lap. When I move to pull them away, he grasps my ankles again, saying, "Calm, Aurora."

And though he seems outwardly calm, his aura shows me that he surprised himself when he kept my feet there, and now he's a little unsure what to do next. He isn't as confident as he would like to appear.

Likely to cover his uncertainty, he begins to rub my feet, and though there are a couple of tender places, it feels nice, so I allow it.

I relax into his touch, and it doesn't escape his notice. Again, I'm faced with a puzzle, as he becomes simultaneously excited that I would accept his touch, and confused as to why he cares.

"Rory." I say, surprising him and also myself a little.

"What?"

"You can call me Rory. My friends and family all do. I figure since you're massaging my feet, you've earned the right to call me by my nickname." I tease.

He chuckles in response, saying _"Rory"_ quietly, almost to himself, as though he's testing it out.

He continues to rub my feet in companionable silence, and I go back to studying his aura. I notice that his aura begins moving differently, then I watch as it circles around my feet. Something else I've never been able to do before presents itself: I can see the outline of my feet as his aura surrounds it. I glance at him, and notice that now I can see his silhouette as well, outlined clearly by the swirling colors.

I look back down at my feet in time to see the green, purple, blue, and red most prominent in his aura circle them faster until the energy focuses on the injured spots. The colors glow brighter, and my feet stop hurting. The brightness also fades, almost as though my feet are healing.

It's then that I remember Loki may be the trickster god of Norse mythology, but he also wields magic. I realize I must be seeing magic at work when his aura does such things, like when he evidently spelled the crystal so I could call to him.

Whenever I remember who he is, I get stuck at the awful things he has supposedly done and the anger and disdain he supposedly has toward the human race. I recall the anger in the blackness, and remember my foul mood from earlier before I dispelled the blackness there. Once more, I'm left questioning if he knows about the foreign consciousness in his aura.

"So, I thought Loki thought himself above the human race." I state suddenly, and when he pauses, I continue rather than let him deny it again.

"Don't tell me you're not him; I'm blind, not oblivious."

He's shaken, and responds defensively, but respects my demand because he doesn't deny it.

"What makes you so certain?" he asks, in a more apprehensive tone than angry. He continues to massage my feet, and I think the mindless act is keeping him in control of his emotions; his aura has begun to spin faster.

"I may not be able to see you to compare you to the pictures on the news, but I've been told some of your story. Your level of confidence is rare, though sometimes spotty, and only someone raised as a god could have that intensity. Also, how many people can be named _Loki_ and have it fit them so perfectly?" I decide to leave out that fact that I'm pretty sure I watched him do magic, since that would require an explanation of aura-seeing that I'm not ready to get to yet.

He doesn't respond, though the anxiety in his aura grows nearly exponentially as the good-humored green shrinks a bit; strangely the black seems to lose power as well rather than take advantage of the weakened defenses.

"So you are the Loki from Asgard who calls this planet Midgard and refers to humans as Midgardians as he all but spits on our mediocrity – " he take a breath to interrupt me, but I hold up my hand, "and yet, I can't see the person you're made out to be in the man before me. The man who had no compunction about carrying me safely out of the glass. The same man who then cleaned the mess and cared for my cuts. The same man who now massages my feet, who let me learn his face, and who still has shown no ill-will toward me."

He takes a moment to collect himself; I've flustered him, first bringing up things that cause his insecurity to reach new heights, then naming things that calmed him and almost seemed to _reassure_ him.

"Usually, that is how I feel about humans. But you seem to be the exception. I saw you at the gala, talking to some man who placed the necklace on you, and I couldn't look away. I was drawn to you, almost like," he pauses and huffs in amusement at himself, "almost like magic." He says it ironically, but the word holds new meaning to me now.

I ignore the way his admission to being drawn to me makes me feel. I'm busy trying to uncover more about this mystery man.

"So magic is how your aura sped up the healing in my feet, and added your aura to the crystal's, right? Why didn't you remove the black?" I ask, all at once. Again, I've thrown him off as the conversation took an unexpected turn.

"You see auras?" he asks, incredulously.

"Yes, don't you?"

"No, I don't have that gift." I sit back and absorb what he's said. So he doesn't know about the auras?

"It's interesting that you do, however. Every race has what we call "Seers" who have the same gift. It's rare everywhere but especially here on Midgard. Though those from your planet have always been the strongest." He must sense how overwhelmed I am, because he pauses and rubs my knee comfortingly.

"That does explain why you were immune to my magic." He says, almost to himself.

"What? When?" I demand, needing to know answers to questions I didn't know to ask about _myself_.

He just keeps rubbing my feet, maybe in an attempt to calm me down. I barely notice how distressed my voice sounds.

"At the gala," he finally begins, "I was using magic to make myself invisible to everyone. I needed to see the vase you were at for…reasons," I decide to ignore his hesitation for the moment, "though I'll admit that when I saw you admiring it, I was strangely glad to have an opportunity to be near you and study you closer. Maybe discern why I was so drawn to you." He stops and chuckles, momentarily working up some courage to brush a lock of hair behind my ear – and this action comforts me a bit.

"Anyway, when I was standing by you, I'll admit I was pushing the proximity a bit, but I almost couldn't help myself. When you acknowledged me, I was beyond startled. When you continued to look away, I tried to increase my magic, yet you again spoke to me. For a reason I couldn't – and still can't – fathom, I was pleased you could see me. And became irrationally angry when you wouldn't actually look at me. So angry, it took me a moment to comprehend that you are blind. And then I felt like an ass."

I laugh, "You shouldn't, it's not like you could've known."

"Nonetheless, I find your eyes to be fascinating." Unexpectedly, he sits up straighter, and actually slaps his palm to his forehead – I didn't know anyone actually did that.

"Of course!" he exalts, "I should've realized sooner that you see auras! Your eyes proclaim it for anyone paying attention!"

"Um, what?" I question, feeling like I've lost control of the conversation.

"Like I said, Midgardians are the strongest Seers, but they've always had to sacrifice something for the ability."

"But I didn't purposefully do anything…"

"No, you wouldn't have to, the ancient forces of the universe would do it for you, likely when you were a child."

He stops for a moment before quietly continuing, "When did you lose your eyesight?"

Without warning memories begin assaulting me: bright flashes of light, the song on the radio turning to static, my mother's beautiful green eyes and flashing red hair, a city corner in the middle of the day, an out of control truck, screaming, the sting of salty tears on cuts, the color red everywhere, shouts, a ringing in my ears, thinking maybe I hear a whispered _I love you_, and then darkness.

But mostly, I remember the pain in my head, right behind my eyes. Then in my eyes.

"Rory!" comes a booming voice, right at my ear, "Rory, calm down!"

I realize that I got lost in my head, in the memories, and I can taste the salt from tears I didn't mean to shed.

Loki has finally abandoned my feet, and evidently moved behind me, supporting me as I dissolved into my panic attack. It's subsided now, but I'm left shaken and upset. I twist around and throw myself against his chest, unable to stem the tears at this moment. He doesn't hesitate to wrap his arms around me, stroking my hair and making comforting noises. I appreciate that he doesn't tell me everything is okay, or that I'm fine, just lets me cry.

Finally, I control myself, repeating like a mantra in my head that it's over, it was years ago.

I've long since stopped trying to include that it wasn't my fault; it derails the whole exercise since it feels false.

Loki's aura is permeated with concern for me, though he hasn't said anything yet. Maybe afraid he'll set me off again.

"I'm sorry," I begin quietly, "the memories took me by surprise. I haven't had a panic attack in a long time."

"Don't apologize, I'm the one who is sorry. I should've realized it wouldn't have been a peaceful memory." He responds, rubbing soothing circles on my hands with his thumbs.

"It's just, not where I thought the conversation would go."

"Well, then let's get back to your questions. I believed you asked if magic was how I added my aura's to the crystal's?"

I'm relieved he didn't ask for details on why I freaked out, and is instead willing to let me recover.

"Yes, if you don't see auras, how did you do that?"

"Well, I didn't on purpose. I cast a spell on the crystal. Same as I did a healing spell for your feet."

I digest this information. "So," I begin slowly, "magic must be connected to auras. Specifically, I can see, via your aura, when you do magic. Even though you're not using it to _do_ magic."

"Correct." He thinks for a moment, "What did you mean when you asked why I didn't remove 'the black'?"

"Well, if you can't see auras, it explains why you didn't remove it. The crystal had a black outlining to the aura, which was made up of the colors of the crystal. It's the same black that's in your aura." I say, thinking hard, and not really anticipating what that knowledge might mean to him.

He pulls away from me, the colors in his aura shifting almost entirely to show immense sadness, almost depression, anger, and self-loathing.

"No, wait, it's not yours." I hasten to tell him, quickly grabbing his hand again. The colors are dulled when I grab his hand – which is another tidbit I file away for contemplation later – and I can see when my words reach him. First confusion, then hope, and I'm saddened for him, though I can't pinpoint why yet.

Another look shows me the blackness hasn't regained any strength, for lack of a better word.

"The black seems to come from a different consciousness, and it is the same one I noticed on the crystal. I was in a foul mood earlier, and I had thought it was due to lunch with my father, but then I focused on the blackness around the crystal and it was different from last night. The more I focused on it, the weaker it became, until it finally disappeared, and took my bad mood with it."

Loki is becoming more intrigued, and less negative, the longer I explain.

"Everything was fine after it went away." I pull the crystal out from under my shirt, and there's a flash of satisfaction from Loki that I'm still wearing it. I check that the black hasn't returned; it hasn't.

"And it's still fine now." I tell him.

"Anyway, it's the same I see in yours. When I focus on it, I feel its rage. But it's not yours; it's not you."

"Then what is it?" he asks quietly.

"I was hoping you could tell me."

We sit in silence for a moment.

"You know, I've never seen a baby or toddler with black in their aura. Everyone starts with white in their aura, and not many adults have any left. It's not bad, people just grow and other colors take over. You weren't born with this blackness. And since it feels like someone else, I'd be willing to bet it was placed there." I say, mostly thinking out loud.

"But when?" he asks, and this time I think he's asking himself. I still provide a theory.

"I didn't think auras could be tampered with by outside forces, but I also wasn't convinced magic was real for a long time either. Maybe someone placed it there when you were a child. You would have been less likely to notice it then."

He stands and paces. I lift my feet and sit criss-cross on the couch, trying to stay out of his way.

Suddenly, he stops. "Unless someone spelled the crystal to infect me." He continues to pace. "But no, it was given to me by my brother."

"Thor?" I ask.

"Yes, when we still got along. He wouldn't have done it; he can't even wield magic." I can tell he's starting to get frustrated, wanting to know who did this to him.

He stops again and drops to the couch beside me.

"I just remembered something." He says, and his voice is desolate. I reach out and find his shoulder, squeezing it lightly. He lifts his hand and places it over mine before continuing.

"I lost it briefly, only a couple weeks after it had been given to me. My family and I, we were out in the woods, celebrating Thor's birthday. We were roughhousing and I hadn't noticed it had fallen off; I wore it everyday and insisted I go back to look for it. Thor went on ahead back to mother and father, and when I reached where we had played, I couldn't find it. When I turned to go back, there was a figure in a cloak behind me. He had the crystal in his hand. He gave it back to me, and warned me not to go losing it in the future. I didn't remember that until just now. It had to have been him."

He still seems distressed. "What else?"

"You mentioned it put you in a bad mood. Well, it wasn't long after that I began to feel envious of Thor, and like I was always in his shadow in everything. It was the start of my path that led to everything in New York." He drops his head into his hands, unsure about how to handle the comprehension that he's been manipulated.

His head pops back up again, and his posture goes rigid.

"It's why I've agreed to this new plan." He says in alarm. "I can see so clearly now that I know."

"What new plan?" I ask, completely confused now.

He turns to me, "You made the black from the crystal go away?"

I nod in affirmation.

"Probably because the spell was so old, and the crystal wasn't meant to hold it. Could you try the same with me?" he pleas, only a little desperation in his voice, but a tsunami in his aura.

"Um, of course I'll try. I've never purposefully attempted to change an aura."

"Please." He says, and the intensity of the word leaves me with no choice.

I use my newfound ability to bring the aura into crisp focus, once again showing me Loki's outline. I focus on the black, willing it away. Loki may have been onto something when he said the crystal's spell was old, because this time the aura seems to be fighting back.

On instinct, I reach out and touch my fingertips to Loki's temples, resting my whole hands along the sides of his face. He doesn't even flinch, just leans closer to make it easier on me.

This time when I focus, a piece of the black breaks away from the mass. It swirls around in his aura, but I focus even harder on it, and I only flinch briefly when it almost seems to shriek, though I'm not convinced I heard it with my ears. Then it disappears completely.

I sit back, and drop my hands into my lap. I realize I'm breathing hard and I'm shaky. It takes a lot of effort, I'm realizing.

"What happened? You were concentrating for ten minutes."

"That long? It felt more like two." I say honestly. I lost track of time, and I'm tired.

"Did it – did it work?" he asks gravely.

"Oh, sorry, yes, a small bit of it is gone."

The resurgence of hope and happiness in his aura is worth the strain I felt.

He gets a flash of curiosity and I wait for his question.

"I'm curious," he begins, "could others see the crystal?"

"Um, yeah." I think on it for a moment. "Though, it did take Chester an hour to see it after you left last night."

"Chester?"

"A family friend. He and his family gifted the other necklace to me last night. Oh! My father could see it today with no problem as well."

"You wore it earlier, too?"

"I actually haven't taken it off. Which is weird for me, because I typically don't sleep with jewelry on."

"So you wore it against your skin for multiple hours before you even focused on the black?"

"Yes. What are you getting at?"

"I think I know why you could make the spell disappear. It also explains why my magic didn't work on you." And then he stops, lost in thought.

"Well?" I ask, only a little impatient.

"I think you're not only immune to magic, but also counteract it. You weakened the spell gradually as you wore the crystal. It took Chester an hour to notice it because I spelled it so no one would see it; it took an hour for you to wear the spell down. Then, after weakening it, you were able to overpower it."

I digest this theory for a moment, and it seems to work.

"Just now I somehow broke a small piece of the black away and that's what went away."

He start getting excited, "And so you've begun weakening the spell! It's probably the spell that's been building my disdain for humanity, but when I got near you, you were a blow to the spell, breaking that portion of it." He stops and thinks again, while I just sit quietly.

"If you're open to continuing to remove piece of it, I'd very much like to know that I am myself and am not being influenced against my will."

"Of course!" I exclaim, "Though, it is difficult, and it may take time." My statement is punctuated by a yawn as the toll catches up with me.

"My apologies, I know better than most the toll magic takes, and you're unknowingly wielding a very specific kind. It may help to know that I think it will get easier every time."

But I'm barely listening. I just feel sleepy, and Loki has noticed I'm practically asleep sitting up.

"Shall I go?" he asks, but for some reason this reminds me of the accident. It hits me most when I'm exhausted, and this time is no different. I tear up, and suddenly I find myself wrapped in his arms again.

"Tell me what I've said to upset you, and I will say it no more, please, Aurora."

I shake my head and hold in the tears. "It's nothing you've done. Just memories of the past. I lost so much more than my eyesight. Why did she have to be part of the sacrifice? Why did I have to lose her and sight in the same three seconds?" My voice has gotten more out of control and I hate it, _I hate it_. But there's nothing I can do to restrain the flow of tears now, and the guilt just hits so hard sometimes.

Loki hasn't said anything, just hums something I don't recognize, but is pleasant all the same.

He must sense when I'm about to slip under, because he says, "If it's agreeable to you, I think I'll stay and watch over you as you sleep. I can help keep the nightmares at bay, and make sure there are no side effects from the blackness."

"Ok." Is all I can manage as I slip into sleep. My last coherent thought before I sleep is being relieved he'll stay, because everyone always leaves me somehow.


	5. Chapter 5

Waking up is non-eventful. And that in itself is an event, since I wasn't wrenched awake by a nightmare, drenched in sweat and shuddering from leftover fear. I lie still, contemplating why I didn't have a nightmare, hoping to maybe recreate the scenario.

Then I remember my visitor earlier and our conversation, which leads to why I was tired enough to fall asleep at five in the evening. As I sit up, I notice Loki's aura, sprawled out in an area where I keep a chair in my room. His aura is in a peaceful state I associate with sleep, and listening carefully I can hear a fairly even inhale and exhale pattern coming from his direction.

Recalling his statement just before sleep took me that he can keep nightmares away, I realize his presence is why I slept peacefully. A smirk on my face is the only give away that my thoughts are going to places they shouldn't, contemplating how to keep him around in the future, of course solely for the purpose of no nightmares.

I drop my head and laugh quietly to myself, reminding myself that he's probably got better things to do than hang out with me between darkness-removal sessions – something I realize I'll have to come up with a better name for in the future.

I lean over and hit a button on my side table clock, and it tells me in a robotic voice that it's now nine fifteen pm. I always have the volume pretty low, I'm sensitive to noise changes in my environment, but apparently Loki isn't since it hasn't appeared to have disturbed his sleep in the least.

I chuckle softly to myself, and slide quietly out of bed before tip toeing past the sleeping man. I go to my kitchen first, but I'm not really hungry so I grab an energy bar and milk, but this time in a plastic cup. As I turn to head back the way I came to my real destination, I run into the broom Loki had placed against the counter – and send it clattering to the floor, hitting the dust pan and sending it skidding somewhere to my left.

I sigh, but not in an annoyed way. I knew I would run into it eventually. I place my pseudo dinner on the counter before leaning down and grabbing the handle of the broom. Instead of searching for the dust pan the hard way, I simply run the broom in a circle around me, slowly moving toward where I think I heard it land. I locate the dust pan after I hear the broom make contact.

I place them back where they belong in the closet and retrieve my food before heading to my studio.

From the time, I know it's dark out, so normal people would turn lights on – but I don't need them. Besides, this room in my apartment has big windows to let in light – which I enjoy even if I can't see it, because I can feel the warmth – and turning on the lights would allow anyone looking out their own windows to see me.

I do, however, turn on the audio system. I flip through a couple songs before settling on Louder by Neon Jungle and set it to repeat. I like picking a song to put on repeat because it drowns out other noises, but after a couple of plays, it fades into background noise. The room is nearly sound-proof, so even though I have it loud (though still quieter than normal), it shouldn't disturb Loki.

That's not a normal worry I have, disrupting others in my apartment, but I find that I kind of like knowing someone else is nearby and I don't mind in the least changing my habits to accommodate. Also, I like being by myself as I do art, partially because it helps me clear my mind, and partially because it's personal and I don't ever really know how it turns out – so his being asleep in convenient.

I locate my oil pastels, and a canvas, which I set up on an easel in the middle of the rom, right where I've been told the moonlight tends to hit. I've taken the time to label which color is which for my art supplies before, but I always arrange them in the same order, so I don't bother anymore.

Besides, it's not the colors that matter to me so much as the shapes the lines make. I tend to draw, color, or paint people's faces, sometimes animals, and sometimes just shapes of interesting things I've come across.

I like oil pastels because I can feel where a line is, and locate where I am on the canvas. This results in smudges and fingerprints, but no one ever seems to care. I've been told it's how people know the same artist has done them all. Sometimes Chester comes by and helps me chose a few to donate to auctions and the like. I only ever sign them after I decide to donate, mostly because they wouldn't be accepted otherwise, but I don't sign my real name, instead I sign as _Sightless_ and I guess people enjoy the mystery.

The curators of the auctions like to make sure the people know the artist is blind, though that's all they know about me.

But the image I'm creating now I know I won't donate for auction.

After learning Loki's face, I've been hit with an overwhelming urge to draw it in some manner.

I start with black lines, not really having anything to do with his aura, but just as an outline. Then I start alternating with the green, and this has more to do with his aura. Knowing it doesn't match – at least for normal people – I start to include the blue, red, gold, and purple. Hopefully creating a well-shaded, if interesting, representation of his face.

I know it won't be entirely accurate, but I already know this won't be the only time I'll be recreating what I felt.

I'm so focused on touching the lines and making sure I've finished that I don't notice when he walks into the room.

"You create quite a vision, you know," he says quietly from the doorway, and I notice he's turned the volume of the music way down.

I jump and he chuckles. I smile in answer, not feeling like talking quite yet, still stuck in my head about the image I'm creating.

His aura is very relaxed as he walks further into the room. When he reaches where I'm standing, he stands just slightly behind me, and, I assume, looks over my shoulder at the canvas.

"Interesting," he murmurs.

"I'll admit," I start, "it's probably not an entirely accurate _vision_, but I've enjoyed creating it." I muse.

His aura swirls in confusion for a moment.

"Oh," he says, "I wasn't referring to the canvas. I was talking about you. You're standing in the middle of the room, a stripe of moonlight falling across you, with this look of intense concentration. And while your hands move gracefully and quickly over the canvas, you're not even facing the canvas. Your gaze is focused over the canvas, and apparently out the window." He stops for a moment. "And somehow it just seemed so natural for you."

I laugh at that mental image. "I suppose that would be quite the sight. It's entirely subconscious where my gaze goes."

He just stays silent, his aura focused, and I guess he's looking at the canvas again.

I hesitate before asking, "What, um, what do you think?" I usually don't ask this question, telling myself I don't care what anyone thinks of it – I do art for myself and if it happens to help out at a charity auction, that's fine, even if it is hard to let others see it.

He takes a breath, before also hesitating, and I cringe internally. Of course he wouldn't tell me if it was terrible, but I hate when people lie to me, since I can see when they do.

"Is –" he stops before starting again, "Is that me?" He asks, something akin to astonishment in his voice.

"Uhm, yes" I say, just a little uncertainly.

"Wow," he breathes, just barely audible, and I feel some tension leave my body.

"Are – are those colors in my aura?" He asks, with some amusement in his voice.

I chuckle, "Yeah, I know they probably look like they don't match, but whatever it looks like, color combinations always work well together in an aura." I stop to try and figure out how to word my explanation.

"In an aura, the colors flow together seamlessly in a way I don't think I ever saw recreated while I still had my sight."

"Well, I can't say I've ever seen an aura, but I'd imagine this is a fairly close representation."

I feel a small blush reach my cheeks at his compliment.

"Do you always draw in the dark?" he asks suddenly.

I laugh, "No, I pretty much do art whenever I feel like it, I just don't require lights, so I left them off. Sorry if it's a little dark," I say sheepishly.

"No, not at all. The lights from the city come in through the window. It's…at a very comforting level."

We stand in silence for a moment, just enjoying each other's company, as I double-check some of the lines on the canvas.

"Thank you," I say abruptly, quickly getting the words out.

He seems startled, "For what? I think it is I who should be thanking you."

"For staying. And keeping the nightmares away." I shrug, though what it means to me is indescribable.

I get the feeling he understands what I can't put into words. Without warning, he lightly grabs my right wrist as I touch the canvas again, and spins me slowly until I face him. He tugs me closer and embraces me, tucking me against him and resting his chin on the top of my head.

I'm a little surprised, but in no way do I object, so I hold onto his shirt and take a deep breath.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, "Any headaches, nausea, anything unusual at all?"

I take a moment to take stock.

I shake my head slightly, "Nope, nothing unusual."

"I think, you may be a very powerful Seer." He states, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

I frown slightly, "I never wanted to be different."

He sighs, "Sometimes the universe has a different plan that's not what we thought we wanted."

There's an undertone of pain in his voice that's so telling I don't even need to check his aura; the self-loathing and insecurity is back.

"What plan does the universe have for you?" I ask quietly.

He hesitates, "I'm not sure anymore."

I can practically hear his thoughts working, so I stay quiet and wait.

"I thought I wanted to be known as more than just 'Thor's brother'; I thought I was destined to make a name for myself, and I didn't care what I had to do. But now I wonder if I was ever truly in his shadow, or if all of my perceptions were affected by this black curse."

He stops again, but still I wait, sensing there's more to be said.

"I thought I wanted to be the ruler of this planet, I thought the human race was weak and needed to be ruled, I thought it is what I deserved, but now I think maybe it's not me who wants or thinks these things, but someone else."

He pulls away, and tilts my head to see me better, and I notice his aura fight back a little harder at the black.

"But learning about you makes me wonder how I ever thought humans could be weak. You don't need to be ruled, you need knowledge, and you crave it. You're still a young species and you're still learning, and you deserve every opportunity to learn."

He leans his forehead against mine.

"Around you, it is easy to think this way, to bypass my first thoughts, which are beginning to feel foreign to me, but I fear that away from you, it won't be so simple."

"Sometimes we have to re-program ourselves to think differently, but humans – and I believe you are human as well, just a different race – are highly adaptable creatures. I'm a blind woman who is almost entirely independent, and I can get through every day just as I did when I had my sight." I muse thoughtfully, trying to reassure him.

I learned a long time ago it's dangerous to attach yourself so thoroughly to anyone. You never know when they'll leave you. But just for now I decide to forget my own advice, and allow myself to need someone.

I flatten my hand and place it over his heartbeat, where I can feel it pounding. Peeking into his aura, I watch as the black is overwhelmed temporarily by the green, and when the green recedes, the black is a little less, a little weaker.

I decide not to tell him, perhaps he'll just keep doing whatever is that's allowing him to be rid of the black without my help.

"Rory," Loki whispers, pulling me out of my head.

"Yes?"

Instead of answering, he places his hand on top of mine, and pulls my hand from his chest, up to his lips. When they make contact with my skin, the sparks appear again, and I shudder involuntarily, and with only mild embarrassment at my reaction.

It's less embarrassing when I feel his smile against my hand.

"What are you doing to me?" he questions with a teasing laugh.

"I don't believe I've done anything," I giggle, "you're the one who has turned my world upside down." I accuse, but without any real heat behind it.

He laughs, "Oh, have I?" he asks in a voice way too innocent to trust.

"Perhaps," I respond cryptically.

"Well, I do believe we have discussed enough desolate topics for the day. Tell me something about yourself that I don't already know."

I take a moment to think.

"Well, you know my name is Aurora Wardell, but have you ever heard my last name elsewhere?"

"I don't think so."

"Ah," I say, "that's because you're not paying attention. Pick a computer, or something run by a computer, and you're going to find it was made by either Stark Industries or Wardell Tech."

He tenses when I mention Stark, but he calms when he thinks on what I said.

"Your father?" he asks, and I understand he's asking how I'm connected to the business.

"Yes. Though I was gifted a rather large percentage of the company on my 21st birthday."

"Do you participate in its running?"

"Not so much. I care more for the chain of restaurants I co-own."

His aura flashes some pink in surprise.

"How did you get involved in that?"

"I overheard a group of recent college graduates at a coffee shop once, and I liked their idea. I had the money, and that was all they needed to get started. I've become fairly close with them."

"What kind of restaurant?"

"Not the kind my father would approve of or ever eat at." I purse my lips in a flash of annoyance.

Loki must pick up on it.

"Not the best relationship?" he asks, quietly, his tone telling me I don't have to answer if I don't want to.

I sigh. "He's been grieving my mother since she died, and I don't begrudge him the need to mourn, but twelve years strikes as a bit excessive."

Though even I have to admit some hypocrisy on that count. As I get caught up in the familiar whirlwind of thoughts, I barely register that I'm speaking out loud.

"I know he felt lost, but he was the adult, and I needed my father more than ever. He missed her, and loved her – loves her still, I think – but I'm the one who felt guilty, I still feel guilty, I still know it's my fault. His constant absence and inability to look at me only cemented my guilt."

My jaw locks in anger at the memory, and I think Loki is a little flabbergasted and unsure what to say.

"But then today – today! He suddenly seems to care again, and he's asking me about my life instead of being condescending and questioning my choices, and I don't get it! I needed that for the last twelve years, not now that I have some form of control over my life."

I stop and think. "Well, at least I thought I did. Now – now I'm not so sure I know anything anymore."

Loki's arms tighten around me and he's humming the strange lullaby again.

"I'm sorry," I say, "we were supposed to be done with dark topics for now."

He shakes his head.

"I'm the one who asked. I wanted to learn about you, and I have. For what it's worth, my father isn't particularly fond of me either."

"No," I say vehemently, "you can't assume any of that is valid anymore. You were being manipulated in a way we're still learning about. Surely that will count for something."

He doesn't respond, though there's a flicker of hope in his aura.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" Loki asks out of the blue.

"Um, I'm not sure. I have to get ready to go with the Kinley's on their yacht this weekend. But that's all."

He nods, "Well, would you like to get dinner with me tomorrow? Perhaps we can eat at one of your restaurants."

Though his words are confident, there's nervous energy flowing in his aura.

I smile widely, with genuine delight, and it sets his nerves at ease.

"Did the great Loki just ask me on a date?" I tease.

"Yes, I did," he tells me, "and you have yet to give an answer."

"Oh, haven't I? An oversight, I'm sure."

"Mhm," he teases, "well, the offer expires in five seconds, so you best answer," he tells me, though we both know my answer and we both know he doesn't intend to take the offer back.

"Five…four…three…two…on – " He's stopped by my finger on his lips, and I laugh at the startled noise he makes.

"Yes, I would love to get dinner with you," I say.

"I'm glad" he says simply, giving no indication of what he's planning.

All of a sudden his hands are on my waist and lifts me while spinning. I let out a peal of laughter after an initial gasp of shock. He laughs with me, and places my feet back on the floor, before continuing to spin us, humming a tune.

We spin around the room, Loki twirling me and leading us in circles until I've lost all track of where we are in the room.

I'm laughing too hard and having too much fun to care. It's during our impromptu dance that I realize I've decided to trust him wholeheartedly, even though doing so has done nothing but hurt me in the past.

I decide life is full of risks.

Finally we come to a stop, and I'm still laughing and short of breath when he pulls me close again.

He's chuckling and his aura is bright with exhilaration, but there's an abrupt intensity to him that reminds me of when we met at the gala and I felt like there was an actual weight to his gaze.

I'm trying to determine the cause of this change when his nose touches mine, and I realize how close his lips are to mine.

_Oh_, I think to myself, as I understand the sudden intensity – I'm feeling it, too.

He seems to be attempting to come to a decision, and I wait in anticipation, tilting my head and clutching his shirt in one hand while my right runs up the side of his neck to caress his cheek.

His breath shudders out when my hands move, and he seems to have made his decision as his arm curls around my lower back and his other hand cups the back of my head, tangling slightly in my hair.

The kiss is tentative, but I'm unprepared for the strength of the spark that electrifies my body, it's more piercing than every other time.

My heartbeat flutters and I can't help the sharp intake of breath, but when Loki pulls away slightly, trying to assess what happened, I don't let him go far. It isn't difficult, since his aura shows me he's reluctant to stop.

"Loki," I whisper earnestly, barely audible, but he hears it, and it snaps his control. He pulls me closer, if that's even possible, and his lips tease mine. Both of my hands move to tangle in his hair, trying equally as hard to be closer.

It's been a long time since I've felt this much yearning for someone, and it threatens to consume me if the kiss becomes any more heated.

I pull away to breathe, and my body everywhere quivers when he kisses my neck. I barely manage to contain a noise that would have come embarrassingly close to a mewling sound.

He rests his forehead on my shoulder, his grip loosened and placed on my hips, while I loosely loop my hands around his neck.

We both spend a couple of minutes trying to breathe normally.

When he straightens, he brushes some hair off my face and behind my ear, before kissing my forehead.

"That was…unexpected." He says lightly.

I huff out a laugh, "That's one word for it."

"Perhaps it's time I go, and I will see you tomorrow, Rory."

I nod my head, though for some reason I think of my nightmares; I'm more grateful for the peaceful sleep than even I had realized.

Loki must read something on my face.

"If you start to feel sick, or anything unusual, the spell on the crystal is still active, though why is a mystery since you counteract it. A puzzle for another time."

"Ok. Goodnight, Loki, and thank you."

He chuckles, "It is still I who should be thanking you. So, thank you."

He leans down and kisses my cheek, and pauses, "I placed a spell, a couple of times, in your room, and you shouldn't have nightmares tonight at least."

"Thank you," I repeat again, and again I get the feeling he understands what the two simple words can't convey.

"Goodnight, Aurora."

Then his aura flashes and he's gone.

I chuckle to myself. So that's how he got in earlier.


End file.
